


Stranger Danger

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: A meet-cute in the supermarket aisle goes very right. And then very wrong.





	Stranger Danger

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you have a conversation about how your AU characters really don’t know each other at all, I mean, one of them could be serial killer. And then you say, man someone should write THAT story. And then conversation goes from there… I’m so very, very sorry and I blame outlawqueenluvr and feistyvagabond.

They meet in the grocery store. She reaches for the blueberry froyo just as he’s reaching for the Chunky Monkey and their hands bump. When she looks up, his breath catches. She’s beautiful, stunning in every way. Dark eyes, dark hair, lips painted sinfully red, but a smile that’s downright… cute.

She lets out a little laugh, tells him he probably has the better taste, she doesn’t really like frozen yogurt, but her roommate is always on a diet and yet somehow always steals her ice cream.

He tells her that’s criminal, just terrible, for her to be deprived so, and then on a whim he asks her if she’d like to go for ice cream. Right now. A proper cone, or a sundae piled with all the things her roommate would pilfer. He can’t say why, but he’s drawn to her. Wants to spend more time with her, wants to talk to her. Wants to watch her lick ice cream off a spoon. She looks pleasantly surprised, flattered, glances at the piles of kale, the bag of carrots, the carton of almond milk and the quinoa pasta already all in her cart, and then looks back at him and nods.

“Sure, why not?”

They leave their carts right there in the freezer aisle, and cross the street to the little strip mall, past the electronics store (there’s a newscast on the TV, an update on the Black Widow, the serial killer that’s ravaged several surrounding towns over the past several months - all the victims are male, all killed in the nude, in the beds of strangers; he tells her he can’t imagine what would make someone so cruel, and she smirks and says maybe she’s just misunderstood - it’s a joke, though, he can tell by the mirth in her eyes), past the hairdresser, to the little ice cream shop.

She gets a cone - strawberry with chocolate sauce drizzled all over it; it clings to her bottom lip and makes him want to lick it off, trace it with his tongue, lick a lot of other things. God, he’s rude, and she’s talking, Regina – her name is Regina. Her name is Regina, and his is Robin, and the conversation flows freely, easily – where she went to school (Yale), and why he moved to the States (a girl), hobbies (she paints, he teaches archery on the weekends), silly things like favorite colors (she likes red, he likes green, he tells her they’re a veritable Christmas, and she rolls her eyes). Ice cream becomes a walk along the strip, down to the quaint little Main Street a few blocks away, and back (they keep talking, conversation deepening, old wounds, ex-husbands, girlfriends lost amongst a spray of glass and blood-spattered highway asphalt), and somewhere between the kids’ toy store and the jeweler, they end up pressed against brick, kissing madly.

She tastes like sugar, feels like a dream, and when she tips her head out of the kiss and gasps, “Come home with me,” he nods. “I don’t usually do this,” she tells him, glancing up at him, biting her lip, and he tells her that he doesn’t either, but it’s so strange, this feeling, like they’ve met before, like they were meant to meet.

“Does that sound strange?”

The smile she gives him at that is oddly… sad. But then she’s kissing him again, and he’s lost in the softness of her full lips, the warmth of her body as she presses against him.

It takes a good half hour, but they end up back at her place. A neat little single-family home on a quiet block, and she blushes when she realizes she’d forgotten to lock the front door.

“Far be it for me to lecture,” he tells her, “But you really ought to be more careful, what with a killer on the loose and all.”

Regina chuckles and shakes her head, dropping her car keys on the countertop next to a picture of a blonde woman who must be her roommate. “I don’t think I have anything to worry about,” she reminds. “For once, the things that go bump in the night aren’t preying on the women.”

“True,” he agrees, his palm against the counter top, his body so close to hers he can smell her shampoo. “I suppose I’m the one who ought to be worried, then.”

Another little scoff and she lifts a brow, tilts her head, “Afraid these are about to be your last moments, Robin Locksley?”

“Not in the slightest,” he tells her. “You don’t seem the murderous type.”

And then they’re drawn together again, like magnets, kissing and kissing, his fingers in her hair, hers clenched in the sides of his shirt. When his mouth finds her neck, she gasps and sighs, and he wants to hear more of that, wants more of her, tries to stumble them toward the sofa but she has other plans, breaks the kiss and takes his hand, steps backward, backward, leading him toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom.

Robin swallows hard, and lets himself be led, captivated by her bright eyes, her shallow breaths, the anticipation he can see clearly all over her. He doesn’t usually do this, but this is electric, the two of them, unlike anything he’s ever felt, and he will ignore all good sense and reason this afternoon, will follow this beautiful siren of a woman into her bedroom and do all sorts of wicked things with her if that’s what she wants. They can get to know each other better later - he already feels she knows him better than the last four or five women he’s been on dates with.

Fruitless dates, to shut up John, to shut up Will, boring women not worth a second dinner, and where was she all this time, he wonders?

And then they’re in her bedroom, lacier and frillier than he would have imagined (but then, they don’t know each other that well, do they?), but she doesn’t give him much time to dwell on it, not with the way she’s tugging her top off and tossing it to the floor, leaning back against the bed. Robin doesn’t have to be invited twice.

She’s soft, so soft, every bloody inch of her skin is like water, and he traces it with his tongue, kisses along her pulse again to find it hammering, her breasts pressing up against him with every quick breath she takes. He draws that sound out of her again, those noises, strips her down to skin and tugs her to the edge of the bed so he can lave his tongue between her thighs (she’s wet, so wet, incredibly wet) and discover a whole new symphony of cries and gasps and moans.

She’s flushed and gorgeous when she draws him back up on the bed with her, straddles him and sinks down onto his cock with an indulgent moan, and a softly whispered, “So good,” that does wonderful things for his ego. His hands find her hips, and hers join them, fingers weaving as she starts a slow and steady pace, drawing them both up higher, higher, no rush, at least not for now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, and she smiles, lifts his hands from her hips and pins them to the pillows beside his head before stealing a kiss.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she teases, and he shakes his head, tells her she’s particularly lovely, and especially like this. Open for him, pleasing herself and him.

Something flickers across her face, something he can’t read, and she asks, “Do you want to see me come?”

Robin’s belly clenches, breath huffing out of him, and he nods, murmurs, “Yes. I do.”

She grins again then, wicked and sinful, and then her hands are guiding his up, up, wrapping them around the rungs of the headboard and telling him saucily to keep them there. She’s playful; he likes it.

He adjusts his grip and holds tight, nodding, and then she begins to take him in earnest, riding him quick, hard, in a way that makes his jaw drop and his eyes squeeze shut.

“No, watch me,” she murmurs, “I want you to watch me.”

Robin peels his eyes back open and rakes his gaze over her. She’s still leaned over him, hands planted against the pillow, but if he looks down he can see her breasts bounce as she moves, can see them coming together again and again if he tilts his head just so. It’s quite the sight, brilliant, wonderful, has him closer and closer to coming, not helped at all by how free she is with her moans and cries, by the way she keeps gasping “so good” and “so close.” He’s lying here and letting himself be taken by her (not that it’s any hardship, it’s certainly not that, she’s a hot, slick marvel atop him, around him) and she’s making it sound like he’s quite a lover. He meets her eyes again and then he’s lost in her, watching her jaw tremble, her brow knit in pleasure and then smooth out again, again, she’s close, she whispers, so close.

“Let go,” Robin breathes. “Let go and let me see you…”

He never does see the knife. Just a shift of her arm, a slash of pain, and he tastes metal, sees the spray of red across her chest as she sits up fully. His hands grapple for his throat but she stays them with her own, surprisingly strong, or maybe he’s growing weaker, and the last thing he sees is her eyes, wild and wicked, and her voice telling him, “You were wrong.”

**.::.**

Usually, she comes.

Usually, the moment the knife (the one she’d artfully tucked beneath the pillow before she went out for groceries she does not need) snags flesh, rips it open and showers her in hot, sticky blood, she comes. They always want to see her come, and it’s always the last thing they see before they go (she likes to think she’s kind like that).

But not this one, not Robin.

She watches the life bleed out of him, watches those beautiful blue eyes go from shocked and panicked to dull and dead, and for the first time in a very long time, Regina almost feels a bit… bad.

She’d liked this one. He’d been… sweet. In another life, in another time, if she was someone else - someone with real feelings, someone who didn’t feel the compulsion to snuff out the life of every greedy bastard who just couldn’t wait to get his hands on her - maybe they could have been something.

But no, he had to meet her here. In this life.

And thus she’d had to end him.

A shame, really, but these things have to be done.

And so because he has to be denied the rest of his life, the rest of his days, she will have to be denied an orgasm just this once. It seems only fair.

She rises, leaves him there, eyes staring up (accusingly? No, not that, he cannot accuse, he is dead), and pads to the shower, rinses his life down the drain, dresses in the spare clothes in the duffel bag she’d dropped on the floor there earlier and repacks it with the ones she’d worn here (there’s blood on them, always blood, murder is a messy business).

When she leaves, she locks the door behind her.

Robin had been right - you never know who could wander in if you forget.

**.::.**

Three days later, when Kathryn Nolan arrives home from her Caribbean Cruise to a house that reeks of death and decomp, she screams and screams and screams, and never sleeps a restful night again.


End file.
